


invisible

by cherrytart



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bullies You But I'm Hot So You Don't Mind, Canon Era, Dirty Talk, Feminization, Finger Sucking, M/M, Ned Little In a Dress, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shame Edward Little Power Hour, Spanking, Spit As Lube, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:02:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrytart/pseuds/cherrytart
Summary: It is not particularly that he wishes to be looked at - quite the reverse.A few days before Carnivale, Lieutenant Little finds himself in difficulties with the costume trunk. Sergeant Tozer lends a helping hand.
Relationships: Edward Little/Solomon Tozer, Thomas Jopson/Edward Little (Unrequited/Unacknowledged)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 38
Collections: Lieutenant and Sergeant Gift Exchange





	invisible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/gifts).



> For the prompt "The Dress." @ktula, thank you for the delicious prompt, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Content warnings and notes at the end!
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful [oceanofchaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanofchaos) for beta reading <3

“ _Have you chosen a disguise?”_

“ _We gave our trunk to the men. Most of the officers are making their own.”_

“ _Don’t wait to choose until all the best ideas are snapped up.”_

* * *

It’s possibly the best advice Captain Fitzjames has ever given him, so it comes as no surprise that Edward, exercising that peculiar reticence he so despises in himself but cannot seem to shake off, fails utterly to follow it. So it is that he finds himself, less than two days before first sunrise, shut up in a storeroom on the lower deck, where the last remnants of Terror’s costumes have been hastily stowed away.

The lock on the trunk is broken, picked over by eager hands. The men have had no such diversions in a long while, he’s well aware. He gets to his knees on the damp surface of the deck and swings his lantern out to peer inside.

At first he mistakes it for the lining of the trunk, and it is thanks to only the bulk of corset, petticoats, and a ragged linen shift tangled within the skirt, that he recognises it for what it is.

He can understand why the dress was discarded by the crew, for the fabric is a gauzy muslin, entirely unsuitable for the climate they now find themselves in. It is lined with something like silk, though, and Edward finds himself working the underskirt between his thumb and forefinger, the slight scratch oddly pleasant against his cold and callused skin.

_"Neddy, come and help," Sarah called, the back of her dress hanging open, tiny buttons like a row of teeth._

_"Neddy’s too little," Meg declared, "Neil, you do it."_

He’d liked to sit in his sisters’ cupboards when he was small, shrouded safely in skirts and pouches of lavender. He loves his brothers and sisters well, but they were terribly noisy to young Ned Little’s ears, and there were times he’d longed for quiet. When he was forbidden the stables, he found the nooks and crannies of the house, dusty spaces below shelves in the pantry, and tucked himself away there. But his favourite was the linen cupboard, where everything was soft and muffled, those familiar voices dampened by the thick fabric, but close enough for comfort, still.

Foolishly, undoubtedly so, he pulls off his glove, and lays his hand – square palm, chilblains, broken nail on his ring finger that Gibson will suck his teeth at in the morning – against the folds of the skirt.

This is ridiculous, Edward is well aware. The simplest route, the most sensible, the one he will, inevitably, take, would be to fashion some innocuous paper headpiece and let the likes of Captain Fitzjames and Lieutenant Le Vesconte have the limelight, from where they may, if they wish, bemoan his lack of effort, and he will be sure to look suitably contrite about it. He is well aware of what they expect from the likes of him.

It is not particularly that he wishes to be looked at, quite the reverse, only…

He would not be conspicuous, surely. Plenty of the men will be in skirts, playing at being dairymaids or oriental ladies. The poor taste is rather the point. A surge of absurd protectiveness bridles through him. He does not want this dress, so long crumpled at the bottom of the costume trunk, to be laughed at. It is far too fine, and deserves to be treated as such.

The ship is deadly quiet. He fancies he could, if he wishes, listen for the breath of the men on watch and hear it, freezing in the air.

Perhaps, in this darkness, nobody would recognise Lieutenant Little.

He strips, as hastily as if he were a middy at the basin, greatcoat and jumper and stock. His shirt crumples on the ground, the neck too high. He pulls for the linen shift, breathes out heavily when it slips over his head – a catch in the arms, he is no doubt far too broad, but he does not mean to go promenading through St James’ Park, only...only…

Edward does not know. He knows only that now he has begun it, he must see it complete. He is an officer, is he not? Doesn’t do to leave things unfinished.

The corset, then, and here he is utterly at sea. It is old as the dress, older, perhaps, and the dress is a good ten years out of fashion, heavy sleeves and high waist – a good thing he is not tall. He wrestles with the thing, his hands that can tie any knot he likes without so much as a thought, that can read a map and wield a pistol and, yes, thieve whiskey from the Erebus on his Captain’s orders, finding themselves hopelessly incapable.

It sends a thrill through him, to be put in check so. Any woman would likely look pityingly at him, or scoff at him for entertaining such frivolous thoughts. It is only a string looped through eyes, long enough to tie round in the front, even.

He does his best. Cannot get it tight, nor properly tied, but he was not made for this, it has been thrust upon him, he feels, as surely as command, and he will accept whatever he receives. The petticoat is easy by comparison, a simple knot about his waist.

 _Dashed ticklish on a man’s legs, those horsehair ones – one must push them all the way up, don’t you know,_ George had confided once, sending John into conniptions of appalled piety and causing Ned, to his endless embarrassment, to flush a patchy red he was sure was noticed by the entirety of the great cabin, from the Captain dozing in the window seat to Jopson, standing straight-backed at the door.

No. He will not think of Jopson.

He takes his trousers off. He may well freeze, but for all the racing in his blood he cannot quite believe in it, the cold that has been his constant companion these past years. Clad in socks and petticoats, corset hanging unbecomingly from his stocky frame, a frisson of humiliated heat warms him from the inside out.

 _I want to be the knight,_ James would say, and so Ned would be the lady, or the princess, or whatever his older brothers decided on that day, until he grew too old and too unruly to be pressed into such service. But oh, never had he felt a single thing like this.

The dress unbuttons along the back. He will never get it over his shoulders, he knows, so he steps into it instead, his feet numb against the deck, whether from excitement or incipient frostbite he is not sure. The skirts puff out about his legs, a soft sigh. He is lucky – it was made for a woman of stature, clearly, and a man of middling height such as he has only small difficulty pulling himself into the folds of creamy lace – though it would no more do up than the corset, he thinks, were he to attempt such a thing, or if someone else – and here he pauses, fussing with the cuffs resting just an inch above his wrists – were to button him into it, firmly and without refusal.

He is glad there is no looking glass, for he does not wish to see himself entire. Only to feel the weight of the petticoats about his legs, not nearly so ticklish as George made them sound, though perhaps it is different when one is in full déshabillé, or engaged in congress with a lady – Edward surely would have no idea of _that_ , and must take Hodgson’s word for it. To be embraced by the tight pull of the corset, surrounded on all sides, and to observe the trail of white muslin as it spills across his skin, this, _this_ is what he has craved without ever even realising, and he bunches his hands in the long skirts, then lets go, fearful of mussing them.

It’s a terrible thought, though no doubt the dress has seen as much of the world than he has, carted from place to place at the bottom of the costume trunk, dug out for plays and other entertainments and hastily tied onto one ship’s boy or another, pulled off just as fast. He can well remember the shipboard theatricals of his own youth, and how very jolly it had seemed to be got up in costume.

He wraps his arms about himself, briefly, not so much from the cold as from memory, and missing. Here he stands, thirty six years old and first lieutenant on one of her majesty’s finest discovery ships, and the happiest he has felt in quite a while is this.

It cannot last, and rather than allow the spell to break on its own, Edward knows that it is he who must end it. He reaches carefully for the open back of the frock, attempts to tug it down his front. It will not budge. He tries again, then stops, in fear of ripping the delicate fabric. A wave of self recrimination comes over him, swiftly followed by one of panic.

His greatcoat is crumpled on the storeroom floor. He might, he supposes, tuck it over himself, even considering the diaphanous sleeves of the dress, and make his way back to the fo'c's'le, there to beg for help from one of the stewards. The ship is empty enough that he might well manage it. They’re a kindly lot, as it goes, and will not josh him too badly. Well, perhaps not Gibson, who always seems on the edge of a disapproving look – and Genge is gone to Erebus to wait on Mr Helpman – and Armitage he knows is on watch with one or other of the marines, though how that came about Edward is pressed to recall – and the gun-room steward likely knows less of the mechanics of dress than Edward himself does.

Jopson, then. Jopson will know what to do.

But by god, how can he appear like this to Jopson?

It is a thing of great embarrassment to Edward, this – well, there is no other word for it – this _tendresse_ he feels for the Captain’s steward. Jopson has certainly done nothing to encourage it – other than act according to his nature, which is to be kind, and to listen, and do everything he can to please.

Is it so bad, then, that Edward might wish to please him? Well, this will certainly not do that. He gives another, futile tug to the dress – he might get it down to his waist, but what he needs – what he knows he needs – is for a hand to lift it over his head. He bites into his lip to keep from cursing.

“Well, old girl,” he murmurs, bracing his hand over the bodice, speaking low and calm as he would to an unruly horse, “What’s to be done?”

“Lieutenant?”

Edward cannot answer. If he could open his mouth, all that would issue out would be a frightful croak, and Sergeant Tozer, standing in the doorway with his lantern in one hand and his musket in the other, red coat unbuttoned at the neck, no doubt on his way to the armoury, would likely look poorly on such a thing.

As he is surely looking poorly upon Edward now. Tozer’s stare, always bold, direct, flicks from the gauzy hem an inch or so above Edward’s ankles to the bodice straining against his chest. He makes a low sound – a whistle, Edward realises, like a navvy on a street corner, he’s something of that type – and leans to shoulder the door closed.

“All well above, Sergeant Tozer?” It is, to be perfectly honest, a miracle that he manages the words, garbled as they are, and he does not blame Tozer for tilting a brow.

“Aye, sir,” Tozer says. He has put his lantern down upon the nearest crate, and continues to gaze at Edward, hard-eyed. “Sir–”

“Carnivale,” Edward blurts, and does his best to straighten, not feeling that he entirely manages it. He folds his tongue between his teeth a moment before speaking. “It was merely...a thought. But I do not…”

“What I meant to say, sir,” Tozer starts, sounding entirely too at ease for a man who has come upon his commanding officer in a state of undress, “is that it seems you may be in need of assistance, there.”

It is, for all Tozer’s drawling insolence, an entirely natural assumption. “Quite,” Edward says, more to himself than Tozer. He, with all his training, cannot meet the man’s eyes. He does not think that Tozer is the type to go spreading things among the crew, he is sensible of his position, perhaps too much so. That makes it worse, somehow.

It implies some dreadful intimacy between them. Tozer is looking at him even still, waiting, of course, for him to elaborate. Edward wishes...well, many things, but chief among them that he had thought to jam the door shut.

“P'raps–”

“Perhaps, if you might fetch Mr Jopson, Sergeant,” Edward lets the words go before he can think them over, prod them and judge them ill.

“Jopson?” Tozer looks amused, now – he folds his arms across his broad chest, looks almost kindly at Edward.

“He is a steward. He’ll have some experience in...well, this sort of trouble.”

Tozer snorts. “Could fetch you Tommy Armitage, if it’s a steward you want.”

“I’d really rather you didn’t,” Edward replies, far too quickly. Tozer isn’t tall, not in the way of a man like Le Vesconte or Fitzjames, who fairly tower over Edward, but the marine sergeant has a certain way of standing that makes him seem so. Edward must fight the urge to take a step back, and has the uncomfortable notion that if he did, Tozer would match it. “Just...Mr Jopson. Please.”

 _Please_. To an NCO. Oh, were they in open water he would pitch himself over the side rather than spend another moment having to meet Tozer’s hard, searching gaze, the amused quirk in his cheek.

“Sure the captain can spare him, sir, him being laid up?” Tozer says – it ought to sound sensible, it _is_ at that, but he is smiling, still, or something close to it, and it is not a smile Edward trusts.

“I–” He cannot even bark at Tozer to do as he is ordered, because Edward hasn’t given anything approaching one of those, has he? He is struck suddenly by the conviction that Tozer wouldn’t mind him even if he did. And the man is right, besides. It is selfish of Edward, unforgivably so, to expect Jopson to come away from Crozier’s side at a time like this – especially given his own position, in their confederacy of four on Terror, himself, Doctor MacDonald, Mr Blanky, and the steward, tasked with minding Crozier’s secret.

He does not resent it – cannot, when Crozier is risking his very life to get clear of the demon that holds him – but he thinks he is rather starting to resent Captain Fitzjames and his blessed Carnivale, for all the good it will do him.

“Not to worry, sir,” Tozer says, in his lofty drawl of a voice, “we needn’t go bothering Mr Jopson at this hour. Nor Tommy, neither. And I expect Mr Gibson’s already abed, lazy jade that he is.”

Edward swallows around a mouthful of air, because Tozer has taken two steps across the storeroom and is standing in front of him, still looking as though he is trying not to grin. “Sergeant–”

“Turn round for us, sir,” Tozer says – and when Edward doesn’t move, only stares at him, he gives an encouraging jolt of the chin, “Go on.” His breath is warm on Edward’s face.

He must pick up his skirts to do so. The white muslin brushes Tozer’s legs, stout and well-muscled as the rest of him. Edward, loathe though he is to turn his back on the man, is grateful to be facing away. Tozer, in his own slapdash way, is doing him a service. They will deal with this efficiently, and it shall not be spoke nor thought of afterward. He is a Lieutenant, Edward reminds himself, and more than capable of command over himself, if nothing else. 

Still, he starts when Tozer lays his hands on his waist. “Easy there, Lieutenant,” he says, and oh, Edward would rather mockery than this gentle familiarity, truly. He allows himself to be turned a little to the side, held in place. His thighs, he realises, are shaking.

Nobody has touched him so in quite a while. Tozer clearly knows what he is about, though – he parts the back of the dress, folding it away from Edward’s shoulders, and runs a hand up the haphazard links of the corset, finding the ties at the top that Edward had so failed to dispose of correctly.

He has done this before, Edward realises, as Tozer begins to work the laces. He wonders for who – a wife, perhaps. A lover? He does not think that Tozer is married. He searches his mind, tries to remember if the man has ever said. Their conversations have been all matters of the moment – who is saying what, what duty is owing, hunting parties and watch details and the like.

Never has he thought to ask Sergeant Tozer anything approaching a personal question, and nor has the marine offered any such information. Edward might wish for George’s ease of manner, or for John’s steady faith that makes the men want to confide in him, but he is as he is and has learnt to be content with it, until now – he knows himself to be an accomplished officer, trustworthy, as capable as he can be with all his little deficiencies.

Yet somehow, he still feels a murmur of disquiet at how little he knows of the men under his command. Of this man in particular, a man who is doing something incomprehensible with his rough, warm hands – they brush, all too briefly, against Edward’s back, and he chokes down a sigh, gritting his teeth. The man who is tugging with easy, practiced motions at the laces binding Edward. He feels that strange pang again, the urge to learn these garments as he has his uniform, the feeling that they fit him well.

He knows he is considered not an unhandsome kind of man, or so his sisters tell him is the considered opinion among their friends. Nonetheless, it is hardly a thought for the moment – and he is sure Tozer has no thoughts at all, beyond the comedy of staid Lieutenant Little in skirts. But that is Tozer’s hand, now, gripping almost hard at Edward’s hip.

It cannot be more than a minute or so since he began the task. It feels an eternity. Tozer makes another considering sound, lets Edward go. There is a slight pause, during which Edward feels again the cold in the room, the numbness seeping through his socks, and he is trying to calculate how long he has been standing in what amounts to the altogether when Tozer takes hold of both sets of laces, somehow worked through the eyelets to the bottom of the corset without Edward even noticing, and _pulls_.

It is like being dropped from a great height – not pain, not even shock, truly, only a great rush of breath that sends him teetering forwards. Tozer must have anticipated it, for one brawny arm folds around Edward’s stomach, and he finds himself tucked back against the marine’s warm chest, held up only by the force of Tozer’s own will, for his own has vanished without a trace.

Tozer does not speak. His other hand lands on Edward’s stomach, splayed open, and he presses gently, stroking the bodice of the dress. “Hold still, now, won’t you.” Tozer’s voice is rough, and Edward can feel – is sure he can feel, through the layers of skirt and petticoat and Tozer’s wool trousers - the hard press of his cock against Edward’s rear. “Else you’ll make a mess of yourself again.”

He feels the muscles in his stomach jump under Tozer’s hand, the corset sitting perfectly snug now against his shift, and the cool skin underneath. He pulls, half-heartedly, against Tozer’s grip, and is tugged sharply back. Tozer grinds steadily against him for a moment, his breath hot against Edward’s skin.

“You–” he begins, only to nearly swallow his own tongue when Tozer’s hand moves down, pressing into the folds of his skirt, the movement unmistakable in its intent. Edward knows this dance, too, but never has he practiced it in quite this manner.

At this juncture, he ought to throw Tozer off of him. His grip is not tight, in fact it is almost lazy, holding Edward to him with that loose arm across his stomach, the other making for his thigh through the layers of silk and muslin. It ought not to feel like anything, so thoroughly _dressed_ as Edward is, but he is excruciatingly aware of every move the man behind him makes.

His cock twitches at a sudden brush of stiff fabric. He ought to have left his trousers on, Edward thinks miserably. He ought to have sent Tozer away, ought not to have come down here at all, he ought, he ought to…

Tozer snorts, clearly amused at Edward, all fast breathing and twitching thighs. He leans and gives him a kiss, whiskery hot on Edward’s temple. “There now,” Tozer says, arms folding Edward up again, “ain’t you pretty?”

“Sergeant Tozer, really...” He winces to hear himself, staid as a maiden aunt and twice as missish.

He _ought_ to speak up, use his command voice, tell him in no uncertain terms that this is conduct unbecoming of a marine sergeant. Perhaps Tozer would listen, if he did. Or perhaps he’d look Edward up and down, with the same lazy, assessing eye he turns on everything else, and ask him if he thinks his own behaviour worthy of a first lieutenant – trussed and bound into layers of silk and petticoats, held fast in another man’s arms and hard as iron beneath it all.

God above, Edward wants him to.

Tozer laughs against his neck. “Give over, lass. We both know you’re gagging for it.”

Tozer’s words bring that awful heat back to him, almost a sting. He can’t deny it. He feels a whine lift from his chest. There is a hand drawing soothing circles against his hip, Tozer making a low, crooning noise as Edward trembles against him.

“Please,” he says again, and if it shamed him before that is nothing to now.

“What’s that, petal? You want something?” Tozer mutters. Edward thinks he can detect, beneath the amusement in the Sergeant’s voice, a rough undercurrent of need. It sends a softness through him he does not quite know what to make of, so instead he reaches out and grips Tozer’s arm where it encompasses his middle, feels the well muscled solidity of him and is thankful for it.

He wants more than he can adequately explain, and the press of their skin together is all he can manage to articulate. Tozer makes a low sound, then – and Edward whines again, this time from unbearable loss – lets Edward go.

“I–” he begins, because if Tozer has been toying with him he will (what, he will _what_ , exactly?). He gets no further, because the marine pushes him forwards.

“Shelf. Get, go on,” he rumbles.

Edward must lift his skirts, again, to obey, so this is what he does – moves towards the shelf jutting from the far wall of the storeroom, though evidently not fast enough for Tozer’s liking. He finds himself all but pulled off his feet as Tozer shoves him to the wall, presses up against him again.

“Don’t drop ‘em,” Tozer orders, catching Edward’s hand as he tries to let go of the fabric of the skirt, to reach up and hold onto the shelf, hold himself up so that Tozer might do what he will. “That’s not what we’re about, is it?”

Edward hopes he is not expected to answer this question. His mouth feels heavy and swollen, as though he has been kissed. He lets Tozer ruck up his skirts, hisses as that strong hand takes him up in an easy grip and strokes him. He is aroused enough that he is leaking, his prick damp with it, a tendency he has always been vaguely, embarrassedly aware of in himself, but it seems Tozer does not mind it, if the sharp exhale in Edward’s ear is anything to go by.

“Oh now, lookit that.” He gives Edward a sharp squeeze. “Wet as an April bride.”

Ned squirms under such scrutiny, for he can feel Tozer watching him, his keen-eyed pleasure in Edward’s debasement, and he cannot bring himself to feel anything other than hot, desperate want, cut through sharply with the vague sense that all this will stop suddenly, and he will be left himself again – and that he wants less and less the longer he spends in Tozer’s arms.

Tozer lets his cock alone, lifts his skirts higher. “Barely any arse on you,” he grunts, and gives him a sharp smack for good measure, “but we’ll make do, won’t we?”

With a keenness that he ought surely to be appalled by, Edward presses backwards, reaching up to cling to the shelf with one hand. The sting of Tozer’s hand against his arse rockets through him, heady and good, to his shock – he has never been so handled, for all he has paid men to turn him up and turn him over, to ride him hard in cheap back rooms and hotels known for their discretion.

He tilts his hips, and gets another slap across his arse for the trouble. “ _Fuck_.” He cannot help the exclamation. This is the one thing he cannot stand about the act – that it so utterly erodes every shred of his hard won self control.

But then, Tozer does not seem to expect anything like control – not from Edward, at any rate. He laughs low in his throat, and then pushes his fingers against Edward’s mouth. “Filthy little trollop, ain’t you? Open up for me, we’ll see how you are with something useful to do with that mouth.”

Tozer’s fingers taste of Edward’s own wetness, salty-sweet, and they press insistently into his mouth, so that he must hold his jaw open or choke. He sucks them as he knows Tozer wants, because the marine has no compunctions about simply telling him, muttering into Edward’s ear and pushing his own cock-stand against his bare arse, coarse wool trousers almost painful on the marks Tozer has left on him.

“There’s a girl, there’s a good lass, just – fuck, look at you take that. Bet you’ve sucked a cock or two, aye? Let all sorts down this pretty throat, ain't you? Hmm?”

Edward tries to pipe out a _no_ around Tozer’s fingers, for no better reason than it seems like something he _should_ refute, but Tozer only shoves his fingers in deeper.

“None of that. You get ‘em nice and wet, ‘cos that’s all you’re getting.” He runs his other hand down Edward’s backside, as if he were in any doubt. Edward makes a strangled sound around Tozer’s fingers, because Tozer’s cock is a heavy, thick sort of thing, he can tell that simply by the press of it against his hip. “I know, I know,” Tozer is saying, plunging his fingers into Edward’s mouth now, the noise obscene as they slide against his tongue. “Don’t worry, sweet. I’ll be gentle. Wouldn’t want to tear up such a little thing.”

Edward’s hips stutter – he thinks he could spend like this, Tozer’s fingers in his mouth and his rough voice, threats laced with praise, in his ear. When Tozer judges he has done well enough to the task, he pulls his fingers away. The moan Edward lets out at the loss splits the quiet air of the storeroom, and earns him another hit across the arse.

“ _Oh._ ” He cannot help the exclamation.

“Do I need to stuff that mouth of yours with something?” Tozer asks, working a wet finger into Edward. It hurts, but no more than he expected. He has not done this since Greenhithe.

“ _No_ ,” Edward shakes his head. He doesn’t know if this is the answer Tozer wants, but he feels – feels safe, feels sure, that if he is wrong, Tozer will tell him. Might even hit him again, to teach him better.

“Good,” Tozer mutters. “Mind you, you’re no unschooled maid, are you, pet? How many have you had before me, eh?”

“I...hardly think that’s your concern,” Edward huffs out, his voice strained as Tozer adds another finger, works him open with the same practiced ease as he might load a musket. His words earn him an unforgiving twist of those broad fingers.

“Is it not?” Tozer asks, hooking his head back over Edward’s shoulder to whisper in his ear. His fingers slip from Edward’s arse, leaving him empty, twitching. “You’ve some front, lass, I’ll give you that.” He grips Edward tight by the hips, gathers up the folds of the skirt, and shoves himself down inside.

Edward keens. Tozer’s hand comes over his mouth, but too late – he is all heat and confusion, the delicious press of the prick inside him blotting out sense and sound and vision.

Tozer’s voice reaches him, though, gruff and satisfied as he sets a steady, rocking pace. “Easy as that. Have to watch you from now on, I think – make sure you’re not putting it about. Plug you up every day. Can’t have this pretty hole left open for anyone to muck about with, can we? _Can_ we?” He slaps Edward’s thigh, digs his fingers into the meat of it.

“ _No,_ ” Edward shakes his head, “No, I won’t, no…” He would do anything Tozer asked of him, he thinks, so long as he does not stop. He will bend over his own bunk in his own quarters and ready himself for the marine sergeant’s cock, allow himself to be fucked night after night until he is too tired to think, to worry, to do anything at all other than take what is given to him.

“No?” Tozer repeats. “Oh, lassie, listen to you. Think you’d say whatever comes into your pretty – little – head,” he pushes into Edward with each word, hard and deep, “if it got you what you wanted.” His hand is tight in Edward’s skirts, mouth damp against his neck. “Never mind, pet, never mind. They can look if they want – see what a pretty slut you are for me. You feel that?” He tugs Edward back against him. He is kissing the side of Edward’s face, as though in comfort, and as his hands dig into the rough wood of the shelf and Tozer presses deeper yet inside him, Edward realises that he has started crying, his face damp with tears that Tozer is kissing away.

His world is narrowed to a very few sensations. The scratch of the lace bodice against his chest, where it has ridden over the chemise. His leaking prick pressing up against the horsehair petticoat. Tozer, behind him, inside him, whispering that Edward is his darling girl, his sweet little thing, that he is _his_ , Solomon’s – that’s his name, Edward knows that much, though he doesn’t quite dare use it.

And _oh_ , he wants to be that – something to be protected, cosseted, put on display. As though he might borrow some fine thing from the dress he has put on, for Tozer to want to show him off. Pleasure sparks through him, fierce, at the thought. “Please,” he finds himself saying, “please, please, _please._ ” He cannot help himself – he reaches down, pulling at his skirts.

“No – you keep those up,” Tozer says, grabbing Ned’s arm and pinning it back to the shelf. Replaces it with his own, rolling Edward’s cock in his calloused palm, dragging the petticoats away from further danger. “Christ, state of you. Dripping all over your skirts. What d’you think your _Mr Jopson_ would do with you, then? If he could see you?”

Edward makes a desperate noise. How is it that Tozer, unknowing, has pressed into this hidden part of him as surely as he has between his legs? He thinks of Jopson, his pale eyes calm and watchful, and tries without success to push the thought away. Jopson would not – he could not – the very idea thrills and terrifies him in equal measure, and he clings to Tozer’s arm because it is all he has, if he shuts his eyes he can pretend there is nothing but this, no world above them where he must shoulder his greatcoat and the burden of command, and do what is expected.

The marine is talking, still. _“Nothing_ , that’s what, and what a fuckin’ waste, lovely thing that you are.” He couples it with a twist of his hand and a shift that brings him right up against that spot inside Edward that brings the most pleasure, and Tozer seems to know it, because he drills against it once, twice and Edward Little, First Lieutenant, comes with a strangled scream that is only muffled at the last minute by Tozer’s fingers thrusting back into his mouth. “That’s it,” Tozer mutters, shifting to hold Edward up, to push into him in quick, jerking motions, showing no sign of flagging. Edward gives in to it, to the rocking push of Tozer’s body against his, tips his head forwards and lets himself be fucked. Tozer lays his mouth against his ear, so that he cannot miss a word. “That’s my girl.”

* * *

“Would you care for a cup of tea before you turn in, sir?”

Edward’s luck has never been particularly fair, but he considers this rather excessive. Jopson, before him, his forelock dipping over his eye, tired and graceful, a half smile turned on Edward.

“No thank you, Jopson,” he says, and, because he does not wish to seem unduly harsh, even as the craven thing inside him squirms for a means of escape. “How fares the captain?”

“Well enough, sir. I shall let you know of any change.” Jopson inclines his head. “If there’s nothing else, Lieutenant?”

Edward shakes his head, steps to the side so that Jopson can hurry past him, back to the captain, to his duties, because that is what he is, a kind and dutiful man who Edward can never have, never touch, and ought not to dream of. Especially not now, now that he has been so thoroughly given in to his own base frivolities, allowed himself to be cornered so by another.

 _Pity,_ Tozer had muttered, once he finally acquiesced to help Ned shuck off the dress. He had held it in both his broad hands, very carefully, and not allowed Ned to touch it. Had fixed Ned with his considering gaze, and held him there when he tried to leave. _Wouldn’t have minded that, to have seen you in this at Carnivale, Lieutenant._

 _Dismissed_ , Edward ought to have said, along with a reprimand for his cheek, now he was dressed again in a first officer’s clothes, but instead he had only blinked. Tozer had patted the side of his face, almost kindly, and then stepped aside to allow him first exit. He had gone because there was nothing else to do, and he does the same now, turning his eyes away from Jopson’s retreating form and walking steadily to his cabin.

Tozer’s seed is damp on his thighs. He longs for a bath, to sink into heat and safety. He longs for his sisters' linen cupboard. He longs, perversely, to be back in the storeroom, Tozer’s fingers cutting into his skin, proprietary, as he takes Edward, as Edward allows himself to be taken.

If he was not worthy of Jopson before, he surely never will be now.

He can have none of the things he desires, so he settles for a lit candle and a basin of cold water. He strips himself perfunctorily, and does not spare the soap. The mirror hangs in front of him, pinned dead centre over the basin. He cannot bring himself to look in its direction.

 _You wear it,_ Tozer said, that far too confident smile back on his face. _And I’ll come find you. Fuck you again, nice and hard like you like._

Does he want that? Edward hardly knows. He remembers he bridled at the insinuation, as though he’d any right left to vanity. Looking down at the linen of his shirt, so close and yet so unaccountably distant from the white chemise he’d stood there in, allowing Tozer to remove his petticoats and corset, properly this time, he feels a pang of longing that settles in his empty stomach – a hunger which no mean bill of fare, he suspects, will ever be able to satisfy.

 _Best I keep a watch on this and all_ , Tozer’s voice comes back to him, and with it the sight of the dress bundled away, back to the ignominy of the crate, and the loss he’d felt to see it go. _Just in case._

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings [SPOILERS]: dirty talk, sol calls ned a slut/trollop, ned is into it - tozer goes in for the encounter without warning leading ned to react with suprise and a little bit of hesitation - both parties are enthusiastically consenting but it isn't verbalised at the outset - little's Big Crush TM on jopson makes an appearance - hints at exhibitionism. 
> 
> [The Dress](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/82086)


End file.
